


Book of the Dead

by faultyfireflowers



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark Jon Snow, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Minor Ramsay Bolton/Sansa Stark, Past Rape/Non-con, Supernatural Elements, jonsa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-06 08:49:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19059274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faultyfireflowers/pseuds/faultyfireflowers
Summary: Arya has her list, and Sansa has her book. Since her father's death, the dead whisper to Sansa in her dreams. She is a prisoner of Ramsay Bolton when Jon's voice joins the choir. It's simply the next tragedy in her life until Jon shows up alive and well at Winterfell. However, he is not the brother she remembers, and the afterlife seems to haunt them both.





	1. Whispers in the Night

Despite Sansa’s efforts to curl back into the warmth of the bed and piece together the fading images of her dreams, the insistent mid-morning sun chased away the fog of sleep. Reluctantly, she slid her legs off the bed, nearly retreating at the shock of cold stone under her feet.  _ A true northern cold, _ she thought, stepping towards the window.

 

The small, gloomy chambers that Ramsay had locked her in overlooked the courtyard of Winterfell, one of the few comforts she’d found as his prisoner. As his wife. Here she could watch her people go about their daily lives, carrying baskets and wheeling carts busily as if Ned Stark still resided in the lord’s chambers. From her angle, not even a banner bearing the sigil of House Bolton was visible to dispel the illusion of peace. Today, delicate snowflakes fell softly, transforming the weather worn castle into a pure white wonderland that looked like it belonged as a figurine on a little princess’ shelf. She imagined that she could look beyond the walls of Winterfell to the Wall where her last remaining kin led the men of the Night’s Watch. Sansa had never paid much mind to Jon Snow as a girl, but now seeing her half-brother again was a fairytale. She clung to the thought through the long isolation of the day and the horrors of the night.

 

It was no longer early in the day, but no one besides Ramsay ever came to Sansa’s chambers unless ordered. They were too afraid of the consequences after the brutal murder of the kind old woman who had attempted to help her escape. Confident in her solitude until a silent servant would bring the midday meal, Sansa ran her fingers over the windowsill ledge, finding the gap between two stones along the side. She carefully removed the pieces of parchment folded into the crevice, scraps covered in her meticulous calligraphy. Crossing the room to her trunk of dresses, she dug to the bottom and grabbed the pen and ink bottle she’d stolen away into her gown from the time her husband had summoned her to his solar. 

 

Sansa closed her eyes, struggling to remember the dream that had been eclipsed by the morning sun. A familiar voice had echoed in the dream, but it was one she hadn’t heard in many years. 

 

Sansa knew she must be going mad, but she heard the voices of those she’d lost whispering in the nighttime hours. They spoke tales of revenge, justice, mercy, honor, loyalty, and love. They told her of their lives, things she had never known while they lived. When she ignored the voices, they seemed only to grow louder, yet she couldn’t bring herself to reply to the voices in the darkness. Therefore she wrote. Sansa penned each strange story into the secret pages and she called it the book of the dead, or she would have if she had the courage to speak of the voices to anyone. 

 

Over the part fortnight, a new voice had joined the choir but she struggled to place it. It seemed lower than the others, even those of Robb and her father. Her eyes shot open and she gasped quietly, just as the door to her chambers rattled and swung open-  _ the voice was Jon’s _ . 

 

Sansa quicky stuffed the papers and pen into her trunk and pretended to be searching for a dress as Theon nervously shuffled into the room.

 

“Lady Bolton,” he stammered, “Lord Bolton requires your presence in the Great Hall.”

 

“I need to dress.” Sansa stood as she spoke and glared at Theon disdainfully. “I’ll see Lord Bolton when I’m ready to do so.”

 

“He- he requires your immediate presence.” Theon wouldn’t meet her eyes. His very presence turned her stomach, and she dismissed the thought that Theon would later be beaten for her small insubordination.  _ He killed my little brothers. _

 

“I’ll attend when I’m ready,” Sansa repeated more harshly and flicked her wrist in dismissal. Theon shuffled out once more, unable to argue in his pitiful state. She shakily sat on the edge of her bed and began to brush her hair with slow, even strokes. Unfortunately for Ramsay, she was in a sullen mood and her dressing would take at least an hour. She smirked slightly to herself.

 

\---

 

Sansa swept into the Great Hall, the heavy oak doors slamming behind her as her presence was announced to the court at Winterfell. While Ramsay usually preferred to torment her in private, her invitation to the Great Hall meant that all of the lords and ladies of the North would bear witness to Sansa’s imprisonment. This was part of the reason she had carefully selected her dress for the occasion- a simple gown of palest gray, reminiscent of the fashion her mother had worn but with Stark colors. Her hair was similarly braided in an austere northern style, much unlike the southern complexity she had played at in King’s Landing. Let all the traitors see that their leader imprisoned a true daughter of the North, one of the family they had sworn fealty to. 

 

Holding her head high and staring straight ahead, Sansa passed the court without a second glance and curtsied almost imperceptibly to her lord husband who sat at the center of the raised dais at the front of the hall. 

 

“My lord,” she murmured. 

 

“My lady Bolton.” Ramsay smiled, appreciating the opportunity to remind her that she was no longer a Stark. “We have received wondrous news from the Wall.”

 

_ Jon. _

 

She had unmistakably heard his voice among her dead family in her dreams. Given the joy on Ramsay’s face, this summons was confirmation that Jon had died at the Wall. Grief flooded through her, but she refused to give Ramsay the satisfaction of surprising her with the news.

“How could it be wondrous news that the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch has fallen?” Sansa’s voice, suddenly loud in the hushed room, rang out like a bell. Murmurs quickly sprung up amongst the crowd like a wind in a grove of pines. How could it be that this captive daughter of a traitorous house knew of Lord Snow’s death? Unsettled mutterings of “witch” and wary glares at Sansa overtook the hall. Ramsay’s jovial mood dimmed ever so slightly as she robbed him of the chance to hear her horrified sobs or naive denial. 

 

“Your bastard brother was a traitor it seems, just like your traitor father.” Ramsay leered from his seat. 

 

“The allegations against my family have always been lies and this is more of the same. Jon Snow was a bastard, but he was honorable and would never betray the Seven Kingdoms. If he was killed as a traitor, he was murdered,” Sansa said, filled with rage at the memory of her innocent father’s murder. Yet she had to focus without the distraction of anger. She struggled to remember the words she’d heard Jon say in her dream. She hadn’t gotten the chance to write them down and they fluttered through her head confusedly.  _ Ghost. Traitor. Arya. Sansa. Cold. Never forget what you are. _ It couldn’t be true that Jon was a traitor, but that word spun around with the others, sparking a faint seed of doubt in Sansa’s mind. 

 

“Oh, my poor delusional wife,” Ramsay said with amusement. “Careful that you don’t speak with a treacherous tongue yourself. I know it must be hard to learn that your last living kin has been killed for what he was, but it is for the best.” His gloating continued but Sansa could hear nothing of the world around her.

 

Sudden loneliness enveloped her. She’d been so focused on outwitting Ramsay’s scheme to embarrass her that the loss of Jon hadn’t truly sunk in.  _ Last living kin.  _ The words echoed in her ears. She was the last Stark, a lone girl bearing the surname of her captor, a prisoner in her own home. The gazes of the northern lords and ladies fell on her coldly, with stony detachment. While the common people of Winterfell might bear secret allegiance to the Stark bloodline, Ramsay had invited no friends of hers to her family’s home. No lords with well-stocked armies fought for the Stark name to be restored. Her thoughts briefly flitted to Petyr Baelish, but moving against the North in defiance of the wishes of the Lannisters was suicide and the man only ever acted in his best interest. No one was coming to save Sansa, even if the North remembered. Memories of what had been protected no one. Her last hope died with Jon. 

 

“Tomorrow, we shall hold a celebratory feast to honor the defeat of the traitor Jon Snow,” Ramsay proclaimed at the conclusion of his self-important speech, and the hall exploded with cheers. While even the news of Jon’s death had not been enough to make Sansa feel ill, cheers for his murder turned her stomach. She retched dryly and fell forward onto the stone steps leading up to the dais, the world disintegrating into darkness until she saw nothing.

 

\---

 

Sansa awoke in a panic before there was any light in the sky. As she gasped for breath as if waking up from a nightmare, she looked around in frantic confusion. The last thing she remembered was growing dizzy in the Great Hall, but someone had transported her to her chambers. The familiar shadows of the furniture brought her a small degree of comfort. At least this prison was one she knew. However, all sense of relaxation vanished as her gaze fell to the bed beside her.  _ Ramsay.  _ She reacted with instinctive terror, scrambling as far away from the sleeping monster as the bed would allow. Her husband had never before stayed to sleep in her chambers after fucking her. He seldom spoke, simply bending her over the bed and taking her like an animal before leaving her to her tears and bruises. However, he also never passed up the opportunity to toy with her emotions. Given the feast planned for the evening, this break in routine was surely another chance to torture her about Jon’s death. He would give her no chance to grieve in peace. 

 

Sansa stilled, both so as to not wake Ramsay and because she realized she could not recall any dreams. Since her father died, she had not gone a single night without the whispers of the dead filling her mind. Yet last night she had heard nothing but silence, as if the world of the dead had been holding its breath. The thought unsettled her, perhaps even more than the disembodied voices did. Why should the strange dreams stop now?

 

Before she had the chance to ponder that question, Ramsay stirred beside her and Sansa shut her eyes to feign sleep.  _ Please let my breathing sound calm. Please don’t let him notice.  _ Her prayers, not directed to any particular gods, went unheeded. Ramsay laughed softly, a bitter sound, and Sansa flinched at the feeling of his hand on her hair. She opened her eyes reluctantly and fixed him with an apprehensive look. 

 

“You are so beautiful, wife,” Ramsay said. It was a mockery of tenderness. “Today is an important day of celebration. Let us dress you for the occasion.”

 

Sansa acquiesced in her eagerness to escape the bed, slipping towards her trunk of dresses. She pulled out a modest gray dress with fashionably flared sleeves, and Ramsay clucked in disapproval, rising from the bed. 

 

“None of those old rags,” Ramsay said, and Sansa grimly noted the glee in his eyes. “Today is a celebration! I ordered a dress to be made for you a while ago and it seems just the time for you to wear it, my dear.”

 

She swallowed. Whatever dress Ramsay had specially ordered for her was sure to be horrific in some way. He clapped once, and a servant carrying a mass of pink fabric entered the room, eyes lowered deferentially. The girl hesitated when Ramsay made no move to exit and he gestured impatiently.

 

“Well, what are you waiting for? Dress her,” he ordered.

 

Sansa blinked slowly, trying to set aside the humiliation of being undressed and dressed in front of Ramsay. She had suffered much worse, but this seemed so intimate. She was accustomed to rapid brutality, not… this. Nevertheless, she managed not to let fear touch her face as the servant helped her step out of her nightgown and into the new gown. The girl moved behind Sansa to lace up the corset-style back and Ramsay stepped closer, finding some kind of fascination in Sansa’s reflection in the narrow dressing mirror. 

 

“Tighter,” he said, breaking the silence.

 

“Pardon, milord?” the servant asked in a thick northern accent.

 

“The corset. Draw it tighter.”

 

Sansa winced as the girl complied. The severe tie constricted her breathing and made the dress dig painfully into her waist, causing her to feel as though she could barely walk let alone attend an hours-long feast. Following Ramsay’s lustful gaze in the mirror, she also realized that it pushed up her breasts so that they were barely covered by the lace of the neckline. 

 

She tried to ignore her husband’s presence and surveyed her appearance in the mirror. The dress was pink and trimmed with red lace, the colors of House Bolton. The fabric was a thick satin, needlessly extravagant even by southern standards. The skirt was full, but the bodice cut low across her chest, bordering on impropriety but for the sheer lining of crimson lace. It was fashionable. It was luxurious. It was completely disgusting. 

 

“Ah, one thing missing,” Ramsay said, and reached for a small wooden box that had been brought in with the dress. He removed a small silver necklace and stepped behind her to fasten it around her neck. It fit tightly around the base of her neck, not quite enough to choke her. A small pendant dangled from the silver chain- the cross with the flayed man. A symbol of pain etched into delicate metal. Sansa could feel Ramsay’s breath on her neck and shuddered.

 

“Perfect,” he breathed, kissing her cheek gently.

 

Sansa stared at the reflection of herself being embraced by her husband and prayed for his slow death.  _ Ramsay Bolton is a dead man. _


	2. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay holds a feast to celebrate the news from the Wall. Sansa takes the opportunity to make her escape, only to be met with a familiar face.

The feast was probably delicious, but Sansa couldn’t bring herself to eat a bite. Honey-roasted chicken, pumpkin soup, fruit-and-cheese tarts, steak and kidney pie, hearty bread with olive oil, shortbread with honey-caramel, and sweet blackberry wine graced the long tables of Winterfell’s Great Hall as hundreds of candles flickered in the iron chandeliers above. It reminded Sansa too much of sitting at this same table among her family. Rickon and Arya playing with their food and getting into all kinds of mischief, Theon boasting about his sword fighting skills, Bran quietly listening to Robb’s lecture on how to be a knight, and her mother and father looking over their people with kind smiles.  _ I was such a foolish girl. How did I not see how precious it all was?  _ Even now, she could see their ghosts smiling and laughing, and cold rage filled her veins to think that Ned Stark’s chair had been filled by Ramsay Bolton. 

 

_ Ramsay Bolton is a dead man,  _ the whisper entered Sansa’s head so softly and naturally that she at first mistook it for her own thought. It took her a moment to realize that the voice issuing the death warrant was darker and deeper than her own. Odd, she had never before heard the voices of the dead outside of her dreams, and they never directly responded to her thoughts.

 

“Jon?” she accidentally murmured out loud.

 

“Sansa? Did you say something?” Ramsay turned to her.

 

“No, my lord,” she said, and he frowned at her still-full plate.

 

“Do eat something, or I shall have to think that the lady of Winterfell mourns her traitor brother.”

 

She slowly took a bite of the fruit tart, barely registering the rich taste of blueberries and raspberries as she looked back at Ramsay balefully. 

 

“The lady of Winterfell will not mourn you,” she promised. 

 

Ramsay laughed, his eyes dark. “You’ll regret those words tonight, Sansa.”

 

She steeled her nerves, deciding to turn to her goblet of blackberry wine. Gulping it down, she thought that Tyrion would be pleased and she allowed herself a small smile. He had been surprisingly kind and even honest, something she rarely received since her father’s execution.  _ Take courage, Sansa.  _

 

Abruptly, the doors to the Great Hall banged open and a single guard rushed towards the high table. A cold, stern wind gusted inside and the candlelight faltered. A hush fell over the noisy crowd. The night outside suddenly seemed darker than before. 

 

“Lord Bolton.” the guard bowed hastily. “An army approaches from the North. At least two thousand men strong.”

 

“What colors do they bear?” Ramsay snapped, rising from his chair. It grated across the stone floor unpleasantly.

 

“No colors, my lord. They came from the northern woods and encircled the castle after nightfall.”

 

“How many of our men are in Winterfell now?”

 

“Five hundred, my lord. The rest have dispersed throughout the north. The castle has no ravens to send for aid since the Ironborn occupation.”

 

“Fortify the walls and make siege preparations,” Ramsay ordered in a tone that bordered on a growl. Sansa fought back a smile as the guard quickly exited the hall to relay the instructions. She was not naive enough to believe the old adage that an enemy of an enemy was a friend, but surely even changing hands as a captive would be an improvement.

 

“My lords and ladies,” Ramsay addressed the fearful faces of the crowd, “You will be welcome to shelter here for the duration of the siege. I do not expect it to take long, as the walls of Winterfell have stood for hundreds of years and will stand for hundreds more.”

 

He stepped down and grabbed Sansa by the wrist as the hall broke out into panicked conversations. She allowed herself to be dragged deep into the rooms of Winterfell as a smile slowly spread across her lips. If she had been asked, she could not have said whether it was due to the haunting promise of freedom or the thought of Ramsay’s head on a spike. 

 

It could have been her imagination that the whispered words  _ I promise it shall be done  _ echoed in her head in response. 

 

\---

 

Ramsay was right about one thing. The siege did not take long. Locked away in her tower chambers, Sansa watched that night as Winterfell’s invaders found their way past the formidable walls through hidden passages and overlooked corners as the Bolton guards patrolled near the front gates and the battlements. They mysterious army without colors found passages that no one but the Starks knew, ancient secrets passed down through generations. 

 

Though she had faith that any captor would be better than Ramsay, Sansa was not fool enough to wait in her chambers to be killed or raped by a man overtaken by the heat of battle. Pulling on her darkest dress, a thick wool cloak, and sturdy leather boots, she readied herself for escape. She folded her parchment pages into the side of one boot. Voices echoed in the hallway outside her door, and she dragged her trunk in front of the door before starting towards the window. Sansa hadn’t truly climbed since she was a young child, but she would not let herself fall into the grasp of another madman. 

 

She swung a leg over the windowsill and peered down into the darkness, a yawning chasm that seemed to stretch for miles before meeting the snowy ground of the courtyard. The door to her chambers rattled and she startled, heart pounding as she rapidly swung the other leg over and began the long descent. 

 

The icy stone wall barely offered purchase and the wind howled, whipping Sansa’s hair into her face. She spit the strands out and painfully inched her way towards the ground, her fingers numb.  _ Bran, I wish I had your talent.  _ The precarious journey felt as though it took hours, each second full of fear that she would fall to her death or be spotted.  _ Anyone looking up might see me.  _ She climbed faster. 

 

Sansa reached her leg down to find a foothold but her boot-encased toes scraped fruitlessly against slippery rock. She wobbled once, twice, and lost her grip on the tiny ledge she’d clung to. Before she had the chance to scream, Sansa fell and collided with solid ground, all the breath driven from her body at once. She wanted to flee, but her body felt frozen to the snow-covered ground. Her lungs simply wouldn’t expand to take in air even though her mind cried out for it desperately. An age passed before she slowly recovered enough strength to draw in deep breaths and stand. Leaning against the wall heavily, she stumbled towards a side passageway that led towards the Godswood.

 

If she could reach the Godswood, she could escape. The enclosed grove was a near useless military target. It would likely be neglected both by invaders targeting the inner castle and the Bolton men, who were already stretched thin to protect the inhabited portion of Winterfell. 

 

_ Sansa, where are you? _

 

It was a whispered voice, unmistakable Jon’s. She shuddered, the wind suddenly raking even more coldly across her face. The voice of her dead brother seemed so near, as if a cruel taunt from the gods to mock her grief. So close that it almost seemed Jon was beside her, whispering into her ear, seeing what she saw.

 

_ Why are you in my thoughts?  _ Sansa instinctively shook her head, refusing to be haunted while she was awake. The presence of her half-brother abated, retreating to the back of her mind where the other voices lurked until she slept. Yet she felt intensely afraid that she had looked towards the Godswood, giving away her destination to the world of the dead. 

 

\---

 

The black of night still held as Sansa made her way into the sacred Godswood. Though it was foolhardy to approach the weirwood tree in the open clearing, something compelled her towards it. She sank to her knees in front of the red-leaved tree, gazing up at the boughs being tossed by the wind of the winter storm. As always, her Stark blood felt more evident here than anywhere else in the world, as though it was on fire underneath the watchful gaze of her ancestors. Her Tully hair and eyes might as well have matched the features of the wolves under the indistinct veil of snow and darkness. Never before had Sansa felt more of a need to pray, and she bent her head despite every rational thought urging her to run. She did not want to abandon her family home without at least saying goodbye. 

 

“The old gods don’t listen,” came a voice from behind her, “if they exist at all.”

 

Sansa shot to her feet and whipped around, backing towards the weirwood tree subconsciously. A man stood in the clearing on the other side of the pond, cloaked in black and silhouetted by the faint moonlight that managed to break past the clouds. He stepped forward and smiled.

 

“Jon?” Sansa said in disbelief, and a matching smile broke out across her face as she rushed to embrace her brother. “You’re alive! I heard such horrible news but…”

 

Jon hugged her back tightly without responding, closing his eyes as if to cling on to the moment for eternity. The two remained locked together, swaying slightly as they embraced. It was a mutual understanding that nothing could separate the last remaining Starks anymore. Though Jon was dressed in the thick black furs of the Night’s Watch, Sansa felt no warmth from him. She frowned slightly as she pulled back and touched the back of her hand to his forehead.

 

“Gods, Jon, you’re nearly frozen!”

 

“I’m used to it,” he replied simply and studied her for a moment. His eyes lacked their usual brightness, but Sansa attributed it to travel-weariness.

 

“Why did you come? How did you leave the Wall to march on Winterfell?” Sansa asked, a substitute question for what she truly wanted to know.  _ How did you know I was here?  _ Because she was sure that he did know. She had heard his voice at the feast and she could read it in his eyes now. He knew what Sansa had suffered without a word of it passing her lips.

 

“The North has been insulted and ravaged by southerners and their petty lapdogs for too long. The men of the Night’s Watch chose me as their leader and swore to follow me into battle. There is a long night ahead,” he said. It was no true answer. The Night’s Watch was sworn to remain at the Wall, and the bloody executions of many Starks had been carried out without so much as a word from Jon.  _ The night is dark and full of terrors,  _ Jon’s voice echoed in her head and Sansa flinched. How could she be hearing her brother’s voice as one of the dead men’s whispers when he stood here in front of her? She realized that she could not share her dreams of voices with Jon. He would think her mad, just like everyone else would. 

 

The clang of steel and the screams of dying men rose up through the night air and dragged Sansa’s attention towards the part of the castle she had just fled. She stood transfixed for several long moments before a fresh wave of terror spurred her to resume her escape.

 

“Jon, I must leave. You should come with me. If Ramsay defeats your army, we will die screaming,” Sansa warned. 

 

“We shall not be parted again, and there is no need for us to run away anymore. Ramsay will die screaming tonight,” Jon promised grimly. “There is no mercy for men like him.”

 

“How do you know of him? How could you know?” 

 

Jon paused and did not answer, merely gazing back at Sansa. His lack of hesitation over sentencing a man he did not know to death was disconcerting. Perhaps even worse was the blank look on his face, an expression that held no compassion or acknowledgement of Sansa’s confusion. It was if he expected her to already know the answer. She hoped she did not, but the words from the feast looped in her mind:  _ Ramsay Bolton is a dead man. I promise it shall be done. _

 

Sudden silence overtook the grounds of Winterfell and Jon smiled, offering Sansa his arm. It was a caricature of chivalry.

 

“Your home awaits, Sansa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Jon has appeared, and Sansa is beginning to put some pieces together. A darker side of Jon next chapter. Please let me know what I could be doing better/what I should do more.


	3. The Red Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon confronts the lords and ladies who betrayed the Starks. Sansa appeals to his sense of mercy with interesting results.

The wind howled around the castle walls, and Sansa shivered as Jon escorted her into the Great Hall. It was colder than when she had last seen it, as if the hot springs under Winterfell had frozen and the blood in her veins had lost its warmth. The center aisle of the vast chamber was dusted with a light coat of snow that had blown in from the open doors, and the twinkling candles overhead had been extinguished by the storm’s gusts. They left ghostly trails of smoke in the air. Just yesterday, she had been taunted here with the news of Jon’s death, but somehow this was the grimmest she had ever seen the hall. Her breath turned to short gasps as she looked around her. Each seat remained occupied by one of Ramsay’s noble guests. The pale-faced lords and ladies were held at knifepoint by a silent group of Jon’s men. Despite the distinct lack of corpses or shed blood, the silence that accompanies death filled the vast chamber. It was suffocating. 

 

Jon did not pause in his slow, determined strides towards the front of the hall. Regaining a modicum of composure, Sansa imitated his look of cold detachment. It was a mask that had suited her well amongst the Lannisters and the Boltons, but now she found that she struggled to appear as anything other than a frightened girl. What little remained of her family had retaken Winterfell, yet Sansa could feel nothing but foreboding. This seemed the utmost perversion of her childhood fancies of knights in shining armor rescuing beautiful princesses. Her most primal instincts whispered for her to continue her flight through the Godswood and beyond the walls.

 

Nevertheless, she followed Jon towards the raised dais reserved for the most important guests of Winterfell, her gaze stopping at Ramsay, who sat at the center of the high table with an unaffected smirk. Sansa resisted the urge to shy away. She thought of seeing that smirk fall and those eyes lose their gleam, and the thought drove her forward alongside Jon. 

 

They stopped at the center of the dais, standing behind Ramsay’s chair and looking out over the dreary hall. 

 

“Lords and ladies of the North,” Jon began, “You may remember me as the bastard of Ned Stark. You certainly know my sister, Sansa. And I know you well. I know that you sat complacent as the Starks were murdered under the Freys’ roof at a wedding. I know you allowed the Ironborn to burn Winterfell and kill Bran and Rickon Stark without a word of protest. I know that you watched my sister’s imprisonment at the hands of her deranged husband and toasted their marriage. I may not have met all of you, but I know you very well. Cowards and traitors.”

 

Sansa sucked in a deep breath of surprise. Her thoughts often ventured along the same accusatory path, but Jon had always been more forgiving than her growing up. He recognized natural human error where she saw nothing but deliberate wrongdoing. Jon had always seemed to understand what she had learned at King’s Landing: kindness was so often stopped by fear, and no one was immune to the ruling instinct of self-preservation.

 

“Jon?” Sansa whispered hesitantly, searching his eyes for a trace of the boy she grew up with. He nodded at her in reassurance but his eyes remained cold.

 

“It’s okay, Sansa, don’t worry. I’m making it right.”

 

_ Making it right for who? _

 

“As the last son of Ned Stark, former Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I recognize these lords and ladies as traitors to House Stark and sentence them to die. Their children shall be stripped of all titles and inheritances. None of these families have been noble in their actions, and now they will no longer be noble in name.”

 

“Wait, Jon,” Sansa grabbed his arm, fixing him with a pleading gaze. “Some of these lords were forced to surrender to the Boltons or die. Their children are certainly innocent of their parents’ crimes. I want justice as much as you do, but this is not justice.”

 

“Innocent?” Jon repeated sardonically. “These  _ fine _ men and women called you the bastard’s whore. They mocked our family. They watched as fresh bruises appeared on your skin each morning and did nothing but laugh good-naturedly at your husband’s depravity. They conspired with Freys and Lannisters and Boltons to eradicate the Stark name. Now is not the time for mercy, Sansa.”

 

“Joffrey said the same when he executed Father,” Sansa whispered, staring down at her folded hands. She did not understand how Jon could possibly know all these things about her life as Ramsay’s wife, but she did understand men who could not see the worth of lenience. She had married one and almost married another. 

 

Jon gently lifted her chin until her gaze met his. “Father was not guilty of treason. These people are. Trust me, Sansa. This is right.”

She dropped her hands and gave the slightest nod of acquiesce, her heart twisting. She’d dreamed of this day on the nights Ramsay visited her chambers, but she found no comfort in the reality. More blood was simply more blood. 

 

“On my command.” Jon raised his hands, then quickly signaled. His men below moved instantly, each one slitting the throat of a lord or lady. Obscene sounds of gurgling and choking screams filled the air, and Sansa flinched back towards Jon, who steadied her with a careful hand around her waist. Blood poured from the throats of glassy-eyed nobles and pooled in the remnants of the feast, staining the tables scarlet and darkening the half-empty goblets of blackberry wine. It spilled from the tables onto the stone floor, discoloring the ancient rock smoothed by generations of Starks and turning the light drifts of snow to an absurd shade of pink.  _ Bolton colors. Ironic.  _ If Sansa could’ve moved at all, she would have covered her face. She would have curled up with her knees to her chest and hidden there for eternity. Only Jon’s gentle touch kept her from falling to the floor. 

 

As the hall of dead men and soldiers once again fell silent, the sound of slow clapping echoed, reverberating against the arched stone ceiling far above. Ramsay laughed shrilly. Sansa wondered if he was afraid or simply too mad to fear even death. She thought him even less human than she’d presumed.  _ Ramsay Bolton is a dead man. _

 

“This is a fine hero you’ve found to rescue you, Lady Bolton,” Ramsay mocked.

 

“She is not your wife. She never was,” Jon growled, turning Ramsay’s chair so that the madman was facing Jon and Sansa. Despite the dozens of people who had been slaughtered in front of him, Ramsay seemed jovial as ever, pale eyes lit with mirth. Perhaps death could only excite him. 

 

“No, but it seems that she is still a bastard’s whore, as you so eloquently put it,” Ramsay drawled, casting a lazy glance between Jon and Sansa. 

 

Jon moved as if to strike him, but Sansa was faster. She slapped Ramsay across the face, hard. 

 

“You will insult me with your lies no longer,” she said. Ramsay rubbed his reddened cheek, seemingly delighted by her violence. 

 

“You must wish I was a liar, wife,” he said, “but I never have been. I see people as they are. Your dear bastard brother is just as much of a murderer as I am. I would say that realizing that sooner will spare you some heartache, but I doubt it will. You’re still a naive girl, despite everything. It’s amazing, really.”

 

“You know nothing of me or Jon,” Sansa replied, stepping back.

 

“I think we have much in common, bastard,” Ramsay turned his gibes towards Jon, giving the stone faced man an animalistic grin. “We’re both killers, obviously.” He cast a pointed glance over the Great Hall. “I think the sweetest life to take was little Rickon. Your half-brother, right? Poor Theon couldn’t find him, but he was no great hunter. It was a good hunt, though it didn’t take long. He was running back to Winterfell looking for his sister. Of course, my father told me to capture the boy alive, but sometimes hounds are too far ahead to be called off. By the time I got there, nothing worth burying was left. Shame. At least I got a good fuck out of Sansa when I returned. She didn’t seem to notice the blood on my hands as she was screaming. You’d like to hear her scream too, wouldn’t you bastard?”

 

This time there was no outpacing Jon as he lunged forward, grabbing Ramsay by the throat. He threw him onto the table, sending dishes clattering and a flood of wine onto the floor. Blow after blow rained down on Ramsay’s face, shattering his smug expression and replacing it with blood.

 

Sansa stood frozen, utterly unaware of the two men in front of her as she thought of Rickon, her baby brother. She had blamed Theon for his death. He was greedy and dishonorable, but he was no sadist and would not have sought Rickon’s suffering. Her little brother had not died at Theon’s hands, he had been torn apart by Ramsay’s hounds. Eaten alive.  _ Rickon, oh gods, sweet Rickon.  _ She needed Ramsay to feel every bit of the pain that he had felt. As she slowly refocused on her surroundings, each collision of Jon’s fist with Ramsay’s bloodied face brought her closer to catharsis. Dizzying satisfaction at the sound of his cries of pain overtook her mind.

 

Hands stained with Bolton blood, Jon moved to grasp Ramsay’s neck with both hands, squeezing tightly.

 

“You will never speak of my sister or my brother again,” Jon hissed, shoulders heaving. He kept Ramsay pinned with ease as the other man feebly kicked and tried to pulled Jon’s hands from his throat. The sound of choking echoed in the silent room and Ramsay’s struggle slowly grew weaker. Jon was going to kill him right here. 

 

“Jon, stop!” Sansa recovered the ability to speak. She frantically pulled at Jon’s arms, but it was like trying to shift a mountain from its foundations. He continued to stare down at Ramsay’s discolored face as if it was the only thing he could see.  “Jon, the people must see. The people should see his death. They too have suffered at his hands.”

 

Gradually, Jon seemed to register her voice. He reluctantly relinquished his grip and backed up a single step, leaving Ramsay to choke for breath on the table. Sansa gingerly placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder.

 

“It’s okay, Jon. Things are going to be okay,” she murmured softly. She hoped she was right. Underneath her hand, she felt a tremor in Jon’s shoulders, his anger barely contained.

 

“You,” Jon gestured at one of his soldiers. “Bind this man and take him to the cells. Take two others with you and stand guard. I will be there shortly.”

 

The man obeyed silently, dragging the subdued Ramsay off the table and roughly knotting his wrists with rope. Sansa watched as he staggered in the direction of the cells, struggling to keep up with the brisk pace of the soldiers on either side of him. 

 

“The rest of you, take the bodies outside and burn them. Then get some sleep. It’s been a long night,” Jon ordered. The eerie quiet broke at last as the weary men hastily began preparations for the fire, eager to be done with it and rest. They chattered amongst themselves, but Sansa was too far away to pick out any particular conversations.

 

“Who are these men, Jon?” she asked. 

 

“Men of the Night’s Watch. Wildlings. A handful of commoners who remember the Starks and know how to swing a sword.”

 

“Wildlings? Why are they with you? And why are you going to see Ramsay? How did you really know to come here? Why-”

 

“Shh, Sansa, it’s alright,” Jon said tenderly, offering her a smile before enveloping her in a firm hug. “I’ll answer anything you want in the morning once you’ve rested.”

 

Sansa pulled back enough to look at his face but didn’t break the embrace. Still buzzing with questions, she was not quite ready to concede without some sort of compromise. 

 

“Once you’ve rested too, Jon. Promise me you’ll sleep tonight. Don’t waste your time with Ramsay, he is nothing. The world will forget him before his body grows cold.”

 

“He can’t hurt me, and I swear he will never touch you again.” Jon rested a hand on her cheek gently even though his eyes burned as soon as Ramsay’s name passed her lips. “He will regret what he’s done.” 

 

“I don’t think he can regret. I don’t know if he can feel anything,” Sansa replied distantly, not noticing his lack of a promise as the sudden need to sleep overtook her. Now that her husband was gone and the bodies cleared from the hall, fatigue began to cloud her thoughts. It seemed impossible that this morning she had been a Bolton captive at a feast to celebrate her brother’s death, the brother who now stood before her after liberating their home with an army of Crows and Wildlings. It all seemed impossible, and all Sansa wanted was a soft bed and hours of sleep.  _ I need to rest. _

 

No sooner did she decide to retire than the heady sensation of utter exhaustion unfurled from the corner of her mind like a smokescreen, dulling her senses. The hall seemed very far away and each of her limbs felt made of stone.  _ Shh, Sansa, it’s alright. _

 

“Jon? I- I think I might need help getting to- somewhere to-”

 

“I’m here.” Sansa felt his voice more than heard it, his warm breath brushing her ear as he moved to help her towards the Great Keep. “I’m going to pick you up, Sansa, okay?”

 

_ Okay. Whatever you need, Jon. _

 

He swung her into his arms with ease so that her head rested on his shoulder and her legs swung over his arm. Some dim awareness remained, causing Sansa to recoil towards Jon when he stopped in front of the chambers she’d been imprisoned in for so many months.

 

“Not here,” she whispered into his cloak. “Anywhere else.”

 

He continued on without a word, finally pausing in front of a vaguely familiar door.  _ Had this been Robb’s room? Arya’s? _ She couldn’t recall. Everything seemed far away and not quite tangible. Vaguely, she felt as she was deposited onto the soft surface of a feather bed and Jon’s lips brushed her forehead chastely.

 

“Sleep well, Sansa. Sweet dreams.” He folded a blanket over her and retreated from the room, shutting the door behind him. Yet Sansa was not sure he had truly left, because for several moments afterwards she felt as though he was sitting by her bedside and murmuring something gently, words she could not quite make sense of. 

 

_ He won’t touch you again. I’m here.  _

 

Her sleep was long and dreamless. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think one of the interesting facets of a darker Jon is flipping the roles we saw him and Sansa play in season 7, forcing her to be the more forgiving one when she is encountered by his lack of self-control. Sorry about Rickon yikes. If I can't update tomorrow, I'll most likely have to wait for the weekend since I have a lot of roller coasters to ride Thursday and Friday. Anyways, thanks for reading and please let me know what I can better!


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